


Quiet moments

by myhamsterisademon



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 16:25:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: He has burnt sweet-smelling woods again and the odour of frankincense fills the room, so strong his head almost spins. But he doesn’t get up to open the door; afraid of breaking the spell, of breaking the silence that is so comforting, for once – without the thousands of voices inside his head screeching and screaming and calling out to him, like thousands of nails creaking and rapping at a window-glass – the voices that weep at the misery and corruption of his soul, at the memories of vices and sins.





	Quiet moments

The light is dim, subdued and leaves the room in a honey-coloured haze. It soothes Dorian’s impending headache, and so does the warm water of the bath. He doesn’t know how long he has been in tub, but it mustn’t be more than fifteen minutes.

Outside, the rain streams down the streets – Dorian can easily picture the grey, wet, slippery pavements, where so many cabs await for a latecomer; lonely and cold and tired – and the wind roars, harsh and unrelenting.

He has burnt sweet-smelling woods again and the odour of frankincense fills the room, so strong his head almost spins. But he doesn’t get up to open the door; afraid of breaking the spell, of breaking the silence that is so comforting, for once – without the thousands of voices inside his head screeching and screaming and calling out to him, like thousands of nails creaking and rapping at a window-glass – the voices that weep at the misery and corruption of his soul, at the memories of vices and sins.

Does he fall asleep? He doesn’t know.

He can hear sounds, but as if they come from a far away land, some hidden place into his mind that filters and twists them – and yet somehow they are crystal-clear. He can see where he is; he can see the fabric thrown on his bed, crimson-and-cream as it is, he can even observe the golden pomegranates woven into it and, distantly, he can almost remember the feeling of touching the cloth – running through his fingers like water, soft like a thousand feathers.

But it all comes in a strangely blurry remembrance – heavy on his tired mind – and Dorian prefers to let himself go under.

But does he fall asleep? He hasn’t slept in so long.

He probably does, for when Henry crosses the threshold of his bedroom, it’s almost as if the older man has appeared first in a dream and then in reality, in understanding silence and swift motions.

“Your servant told me you were in here,” he says, and the spell is broken. Dorian opens his eyes and watches the man before him. He doesn’t speak. “Something is wrong,” Henry says, tilting his head to the right.

Dorian shrugs. Harry is right, he thinks. Something is wrong. But what?

“May I join you?” Henry asks and Dorian nods instantly – not even blushing anymore. He brings his knees to his chest and watches the older man as he undresses quietly, and then Henry slips into the tub, and their legs interweave.

His friend sighs heavily and murmurs something about craving a cigarette, but needing it too much to be able to really appreciate it. Dorian closes his eyes as Harry speaks.

“You see, my dear boy,” the older man says, his voice husky and enticing, “one should do something one enjoys only when one does not need it. Think of food and drinks, as an example. No, not food; that is far too down-to-earth. One always needs food. Cooking used to be an art, now it is merely an habit. Don’t think of food. Think of beauty. Think of –”

“I am in no mood for your theories tonight, Harry,” Dorian interrupts, more gently than he expected. All of a sudden, he feels Henry’s wet hand on his cheek – surprisingly delicate – it always surprises him how soft Harry’s skin is, even after all the times he’s touched it. Dorian opens his eyes, and there is his friend – staring intently at him – and his eyes are so clear Dorian could almost believe there’s genuine love in them.

The older man smiles, and bends his head, kisses Dorian’s lips and the lad sighs faintly into the kiss.  

“Turn around,” he orders, and Dorian complies, with some difficulties and some splashing of water that makes him giggle like the boy he sometimes wishes he still was.

Henry’s hands dart across his shoulders, and then, for only a second, he can feel a kiss on the nape of his neck – and then he speaks:

“Reach me the soap, like a good boy; thanks.”

There’s still some sounds of water, of hands rubbing together and then Henry’s hands are into his hair; pulling ever so delicately, rubbing his scalp – and Dorian goes limp in the other’s arms, resting against his chest, sighing heavily for the second time in ten minutes.

“Feels lovely,” he mumbles, and Henry’s chest rumbles in a silent chuckle. “I am a little sad,” he says, almost speaking to himself. He doesn’t expect his friend to be listening.

“I did notice,” his companion answers. “But you are far too beautiful to be sad. You have youth and beauty and money and books and countless of people worship you. Some of them are madly in love with you, and you are sad? You really must be ungrateful. But then of course, what is life without a little bit of ingratitude? All beloved people are ungrateful, and you are the most beloved of all.”

“I don’t believe that,” Dorian replies, while Henry’s hands keep stroking his head. His eyelids droop. “That love makes one ungrateful, I mean,” he goes on. “Isn’t love to supposed to make one noble? That’s what the Greeks say. A man loves a young boy, and teaches him to be honourable, and the boy lightens his protector’s life with his youth and beauty,“ he is almost slurring, his voice weak from exhaustion.

Henry’s elegant fingers trail to his jaw and then the older man grasps his chin and, unusually gentle, he tilts Dorian’s head to the side – kisses him once more, his lips sweet and soft again his own. Dorian sighs for the third time.

“You are thinking again,” Harry says. “I thought we had agreed that you are too beautiful for that?”

Dorian smiles, shakes his head. He stops thinking, though, and lets Henry wash his hair, content, for once, to leave the voices in his head silent.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the original Tumblr post [here](http://myhamsterisademon.tumblr.com/post/174599890629/hannah-said-i-should-write-henrydorian-sharing)!


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